


The Birth of a Star

by FieryPen37



Series: Held Captive [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Coronation, Coronation day, F/M, Jonerys Dream of Spring Week, Jonerys Week 2018, Spring, held captive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 14:02:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14895935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FieryPen37/pseuds/FieryPen37
Summary: A glimpse of the future





	The Birth of a Star

**Author's Note:**

> My contribution for Jonerys Dream of Spring Week "Coronation Day" prompt! Enjoy!

The Birth of a Star 

 

 

Coronation day dawned under the enameled blue of a cloudless sky. Golden sunlight crept across the tiles and caught the gauzy white canopy overhead, creating a soft halo of honeyed light. Daenerys floundered from silken sheets and the soft weight of the featherbed to stretch. The air still held the cold bite of winter, cool and sweet against her naked skin, but the sun lingered longer each day. A pleasant lassitude filled her, both from a long night’s sleep and Jon’s loving. He delighted in the changes pregnancy had wrought and spent considerable time showing her so. It gave him a certain piquant delight to mar her skin with love bites before their coronation. Jon had absconded from their bed in the grey predawn hours, saying with a grin it would be bad luck to stay.

A soft knock interrupted her reverie. Daenerys swathed herself in the drape of deep purple wool dressing gown, the sash barely long enough to knot around the swell of her belly. She was approaching her time, by the maester’s reckoning, due to deliver with the next month or so. She cupped her belly, feeling the lazy stirrings of the occupant within. There was still such trepidation, such awe and wonder.

Daenerys flicked open the lock. The door creaked open to admit Missandei and her ladies.

“Happy coronation day, Your Grace,” Missandei said, her wild hair bound in a silver net at her nape.

“Thank you, my friend,” Daenerys said, embracing her. Her smile felt relaxed and easy in a way she hadn’t felt in months, since before . . . she shied away from the painful memory. Not today. Today was for new beginnings. Joy. Renewal. Springtime.

“Come, there is much to be done. I wish to shine brighter than the sun today,” Daenerys said. She walked barefoot amongst the flock of her women, liking the image of a penitent it invoked. She had begun her journey to the throne with nothing, after all.

Missandei led the way to the bathhouse, where the Stark women waited. Her languor evaporated in irritation. The youngest Stark looked fearsome in her Queensguard armor. Not in Westerosi plate, it hampered her speed. Instead Arya bowed to Daenerys’ insistence of armor with a simple hauberk of Valyrian steel rings, muted by a velvet surcoat in subdued colors. She stood flipping her Valyrian dagger in deceptively lazy flicks.

“Ladies Stark, you needn’t wait upon me. This a day of celebration--”

“We are cousins-by-law, Your Grace. It is our honor to attend you today,” Sansa said with a broad smile. There was genuine warmth in that smile, Daenerys thought, and she was grateful for it. There was a part of her that craved female companionship, a longing she saw reflected in Sansa. Daenerys’ gaze flickered to Lady Stark, finding a similarly relaxed mien. Knowing what she did about Jon’s treatment under the other woman’s care, Daenerys would never be bosom companions with Catelyn Stark. But bonds of family and alliance meant they would continue to cross paths. Daenerys held her gaze for a long, silent moment. _I’ve the measure of you, and find you wanting._

“Very well,” she said.

Missandei led the way to a steaming bath. Torches sat in heavy iron sconces, hissing in stream-wreathed air. Daenerys breathed deep, allowing the moist heat to fill her lungs, along with the musk of wet stone and the perfume of rose oil, her favorite. Missandei’s soft hands plucked at the sash of her gown, guiding her up the steps into the bath. The dressing gown pooled on the floor, gooseflesh stippled her skin at the chill.  

 “I ask that you forgive any slights to your sensibilities. My husband is most voracious in his appetites,” she said with a pointed glance at the gathered assembly of women. Love bites peppered her breasts and shoulders. Arya seemed to be fighting a smile. Lady Stark looked as if she’d bitten a lemon. Daenerys waded into the deep pool, biting back a half-pained moan at the intense heat of the water. Sweat broke out in a fine dew on her skin.

With the skill of long practice, Missandei draped the loose drape of her waist-length silver hair over the lip of the bath. A separate jug of hot water dampened her hair. A wet, smacking sound as her hands scooped sweet-smelling soap from a jar and began kneading it into a lather in Daenerys’ hair. Her voice, softly accented and precise, guided the highborn ladies in assisting her. Lady Stark lit a brace of candles, fetching and carrying, Rosalin took her left hand to file and oil her nails. Another of her ladies plied her with bread, soft cheese, dried, sugared plums and watered sweetwine.

“Sansa, please play for me. Anything. Your favorite song,” Daenerys asked with a slit-eyed smile. Sansa nodded, moving to the harp on a stool. The soft strains of her music eased Daenerys deeper into relaxation. A snort of laughter escaped. The song was “Six Maidens in a Pool.”

“How apt,” she drawled with a sly glance at Sansa. The candlelight set Sansa’s auburn hair afire, along with her rosy cheeks.

Daenerys wallowed in the water, feeling much like a pampered whale. The babe stirred, pressing a foot against her belly. Tenderness flooded her and she pressed against the spot, reassuring their child she knew he was there. Tears always hovered close and she allowed several to fall, lost in the steam. Missandei rinsed her hair, then wound it in a towel to dry. Reluctantly, Daenerys stirred herself to wash, scrubbing her skin pink from head to toe.

“Arya,” Daenerys said, summoning her with a lazy gesture.

“Your Grace,” she said, “before you ask, I can’t sing.”

That made the hollow room ring with soft feminine laughter. Despite that, Arya’s smile did not quite reach those long grey eyes. There were shadows in them no light could penetrate, and sometimes the contemplation of them sent a chill through her. Daenerys grasped gently her wrist, feeling wiry strength and energy hum.

“I daren’t ask for a song,” Daenerys said, “instead will you go to Jon? I want to know how he is faring.”

“He hates being fussed over,” Arya said with a measured nod. It was a calculated move, both to see to Jon and to remove Arya from a situation she disliked. The process cut too close to countless occasions where she did not measure up to a lady’s standard.

“I don’t want him drunk or in a foul mood today,” Daenerys said. The low murmur of the harp paused.

“I imagine he’ll say the same for you,” Sansa said, in a jesting tone.

“True enough,” Daenerys said, setting aside her chalice, “water, for now please.”

Now clean, Daenerys was rousted from her bath. Missandei fetched silk slippers, along with a heavier woolen dressing gown to ward off the chill from her skin. They retraced their steps to the king’s chambers, dogged by the ever-watchful Rakharo and Grey Worm. A tall slender woman with the warm brown skin of a Summer Islander waited with her hands folded, gowned in shimmering gold silk.

“Chataya, thank you for coming,” Daenerys said, greeting her with a kiss of peace on the cheek.

“A pleasure to serve, Your Grace. The king shall be most pleased with our labors,” her voice held the melody of an Islander accent. Missandei’s had been schooled to a trace, but Chataya had not lost the music of it in her years in Westeros.

“I would be happy to assist you with styling your hair, Your Grace,” Missandei said, her face creased in a frown. There a trace of hurt in her face. Daenerys grasped her hand to soothe it. She bit the inside of her lip to quell her smile.

“Chataya assists in _removing_ hair as opposed to styling it, dear one. Ladies, perhaps I will summon you later once it is time to dress?” Lady Stark’s face flamed, along with Rosalin’s. Sansa blinked in half-baffled fascination.

“O—Of course, Your Grace. We wait at your pleasure. Come, Sansa,” Lady Stark said, ushering her women out as if her skirts were on fire.

Chataya’s work with warm wax and strips of linen was quick, though no less painful for its brevity. Daenerys stifled a cry at another yank. The worst was over, though. Her cunt was bare and throbbing. She fought down a rush of arousal at the thought of Jon’s reaction. It would drive him mad with lust. Missandei bustled about the apartments, gathering her tools to groom Daenerys’ hair.

“I should hope your king puts forth equal effort, Your Grace,” Chataya said, gold-amber eyes amused. Daenerys chuffed out a harsh laugh.

“Wouldn’t that be a sight? His lovely white skin plucked bald? No, I’m quite fond of his hair.”

“The king is a very comely man,” Chataya said, smearing wax thick and sticky as honey on her inner thigh.

“Yes,” Daenerys said with possessive pride. The thought buoyed her through the last of Chataya’s well-intentioned torture.

Once the Summer Islander took her leave, Daenerys set about directing the stewards and seamstresses and painters. The painter fawned over her features, exclaiming at the color of her eyes, the fullness of her lips. The painter was a tubby woman, sway-backed and gap-toothed, though her face was round and pleasant. Skin thin and throbbing, pained by the babe kicking hard, Daenerys found her patience wear thin.

“I am not toothless or poxied, why must I endure paint and powder like a prostitute?” she snarled.

“No, no, Your Grace, you misunderstand! I only enhance your beauty, like polishing a diamond’s faucets,” the woman squeaked, painting brush poised like calligrapher’s.

“Go on, then,” Daenerys said with an impatient gesture. _I will wash it off if it displeases me. Everything must be perfect today._

The older woman had a light and dexterous touch, urging her to tilt her head this way and that as Missandei combed and braided her hair. Three braids from each side joined at her nape, woven with pearls and rubies. Tendrils fell in spirals to frame her face, the under layers falling in a soft wave to her waist.

“There, Your Grace,” the painter murmured. Her hands shook as she held up the gilt hand mirror.

Daenerys blinked at her reflection. A thin upward sweep of black along her upper lids made her eyes look larger, deeper. As she tilted her chin to catch the light, a subtle golden shimmer glittered on her lids and temples. A rich red rogue made her lips look ripe and set off her white, even teeth.

“Are—are you pleased, Your Grace?”

“Yes. Yes, I am,” she said, dismissing the woman with warm thanks.

At last, time to dress. Missandei rose and ushered in the Stark women. Their awestruck expressions told her what she wanted to know as to the effect of the paint and Missandei’s patient work with her hair. Daenerys preened.

“Do you think my lord husband will be pleased?” The Stark women dazzled despite their somber house colors.

“Yes and no, Your Grace,” Arya said from the rear of the group. A faint smirk curled her long vulpine mouth.

“I think he will be drooling out of his head when he catches sight of you . . . but then every other man in the room will be too,” she said. Daenerys laughed, echoed by her women.

“That is a good reaction, then!”

Daenerys urged them into her chambers with a gesture.

“How is he?” Daenerys asked Arya in a low voice. Arya looked relaxed, as relaxed as one of her skills and experience could be, her smile easy.

“He and Robb are arguing baby names of all things. All is well, Your Grace,” she said. Daenerys cut a glance to Rosalin, the swell of her belly slight against the rustling finery of her grey silk dress.

“Yes, all is well,” Daenerys said. 

Sansa and Missandei helped her into linen smallclothes. Stays were tightened loosely. Her seamstress despaired at the gown’s silhouette being ruined by the bulge of her belly. One fire-hot glare from Daenerys was enough to stifle any further grumbling.

The gown itself was gorgeous thing of iridescent scarlet silk embroidered with black dragons in exquisite detail, edged with silver. The dress fastened at each shoulder with blued-silver dragon brooches. The neckline plunged over her breasts, gathered at a high waist. Crimson and ebony beading decorated the waist line and cupped her hips in curls to mimic fire. Cloth of silver and red brocade formed a drape down either side, crimped skirts of crimson silk beneath. Heeled doeskin slippers gave her a slight elevation. Blued silver torqs in the shape of sinuous dragons snaked up both bare arms. A choker of pearls and rubies rested at her throat. The Stark ring shone on her thumb, a lone sapphire sparkle amidst the colors of her house.

Lady Stark laid her resplendent cloak about her shoulders. It was a coronation, not a wedding, so she wore a cloak of houses Stark and Targaryen to match Jon’s. The garment was heavy and hot; its trailing edge would make movement ponderous.

“Ready at last,” Daenerys said, a sidelong glance finding her women fluttery and misty-eyed.

Daenerys swallowed a knot of emotion the rose in her throat. Today was a realization of a lifetime of dreaming. Daenerys blinked away tears, afraid to smudge her paint. She released a shaking breath, gathering her composure. Outside the bells began their ponderous toll, a loud, mournful pealing.

“The throne room, ladies,” Daenerys said. At last. At _last_ , it was time.

The throne room of the Red Keep was decorated for the occasion. Crowded with lords and ladies, redolent with the scents of perfume, glittering with sunlight and gold. The windows were thrown open to allow in the cool morning air. It was a hint of relief, the weight of her cloak and the press of so many bodies made sweat slick her body.

The columns were decorated with the swords of her fallen enemies, an echo to her ancestors Aegon, Visenya and Rhaenys. The dull roar of talk quieted at her entrance, men and women jostling for the best place along the flower-strewn aisle. White and blue rose petals, each step releasing their crushed perfume. Daenerys met the gaze of each of her allies and soldiers present, in recognition and respect. Ahead loomed the Iron Throne, that yearned-for seat of her fathers, seated in its glittering, barbarous glory.

More beautiful than that sight—than any other—was Jon. He stood somber and regal in his black and grey. Black boots polished to a mirror shine, fitted black suede trousers, a square-shouldered fitted grey tunic. On the right breast, a white wolf snarled outward, on the left a white dragon, trimmed in silver. She liked the image of the wolf and dragon back to back, partners and equals. Her mouth also watered at how crisp and fitted the clothing lay against his taut body. A trailing cloak, a twin to the one she wore draped his broad shoulders. Beneath the drape of his cloak, she glimpsed his own stamped leather sword belt and Longclaw at his side. His beard was trimmed neat, the upper layers of his unruly hair tied away from his face.

Gods, her bones turned to water. Heat slipped into her blood. She yearned to be alone in their chambers. Sable eyes met hers and she saw her awe and desire reflected. Daenerys remembered her mincing, measured stride when she wanted to gallop up the aisle to him. At last, she joined him on the dais. The touch of his hand was a hot, sweet jolt. How far they had come from would-be conqueror and captive. _My Jon, my love_. Jon’s thumb stroked her knuckles, his eyes swimming with emotion.

“Greetings and welcome, lords and ladies of Westeros!” Her Hand’s voice rang through the hall. Tyrion’s scarred face bore a blinding smile.

“War has torn our country asunder for too many years. So much lost in blood and madness. It is with a light heart that I greet this day. For today, we crown a new queen and king of Westeros. Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, and her husband, King Jon, born Jaehaerys, of Houses Stark and Targaryen.”

Jon caught her eye and gave his version of a wink, both eyes closing in a focused blink. The heart-melting sight never failed to make her smile. She bit the inside of her cheek hard to keep her appropriately solemn expression. She squeezed his hand, fighting the urge to pull a face at him to make him laugh.

The soft murmur of chanting swelled, a procession of the Seven’s faithful, septons, septas, and silent sisters marched down the aisle, swinging incense censers. Soft clouds of blue, gauzy smoke wreathed around them. At their heels were hermits and wood witches waving weirwood staffs and fresh blood-red weirwood leaves. Brandon Stark wheeled down the aisle in his chair amongst them, expression smooth and blue eyes as deep as the ocean. He met her gaze, and the fine hairs on the back of her neck rose. _Such weariness and wisdom in those eyes._

Representatives from both great religions of Westeros gathered on either side of the dais. The High Septon and senior hermit approached bearing a weirwood platter holding their crowns. The Usurper had destroyed or remade the crowns of her forefathers, so the two of them had commissioned new ones forged. Jon’s was a black iron band stamped with runes of the First Men crowned with three iron spikes, curled at the base of each spike was rose of blued silver. Daenerys was almost its twin, a thinner band of blued silver, crowned with three spikes of black iron, white gold, and aged copper. Her roses were of black iron. Each leader took the lower step of the dais and addressed the crowd with speeches of hope and glory.    

In planning their coronation, she and Jon had consulted dozens of historians, maesters, and religious leaders regarding the ceremony. Theirs would be unique amongst the kings and queens of their dynasty. No septon, Hand, or maester would crown them.

A hush fell over the room, save for the occasional shuffle or cough. Two children tottled down the aisle hand in hand with their nurse. The boy—Aaryn—was a farmer’s son from the North, blue eyes wide and pink-cheeked. The girl—Alys—was a minor baron’s daughter from the Dornish Marches, dark of hair and eye. Highborn and low, north and south, youth and the hope of the future.

Facing the gathered assembly with the Iron Throne at her back, Daenerys bent to one knee. The stone was achingly cold through the thin layer of her dress. Aaryn, his lip fixed between his teeth, carried her crown with frowning concentration. As he approached, Daenerys offered a sly wink. That coaxed a wobbly smile and he set the crown on her head with exaggerated care. It was a cold, heavy press around her head. A purposeful choice. Designed to remind her of what the crown had cost her, what it meant. _May it never rest easily._

Jon knelt at her side, reaching for her hand hidden beneath the drape of their cloaks. Alys took up Jon’s crown and stepped carefully towards them. Her tiny hands shook as she set the crown on his head, a bit crooked. Knowing what store men put in coronation omens, Jon righted the crown with a subtle tilt of his head. Jon mouthed the words: _‘Well done_ ’ to Alys. The girl offered a bashful smile and skittered back to her nurse.

As one, she and Jon rose, hands linked. In the same moment, every man and woman in the room fell to their knees.

“Hail Daenerys Stormborn, First of her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Mother of Dragons, the Unburnt, Breaker of Chains!” Tyrion said in a ringing voice.

“ _Hail Daenerys!”_

“Hail Jon, First of his Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, the White Wolf!”

“ _Hail Jon!”_

The cries reverberated throughout the hall, ringing in her ears. _I must remember this._ Until her dying day, she mustn’t forget. Essosi and Westerosi alike, united in peace. The scent of roses and sunshine, Jon’s shining sable eyes and the warm grip of his hand. Daenerys looked into Jon’s eyes as her heart brimmed and overflowed.

    


End file.
